Eleven Moves
by Malhearst
Summary: The chess pieces have been left alone for long or not at all, depending upon how you perceive time. In the Room of Requirement, time is relative, so they don't. Somewhat surreal. Inspired, of course, by Through the Looking-Glass.


**Author's Note:** Written for QLFC (Season 4, Semi Finals). Position: Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons

 **Word Count:** 1,242

 _Write from the point of view of the giant chessboard._

* * *

At first, there was darkness. There was darkness mostly because no one had let in the light, but there was also darkness as a wrong, palpable thing. Darkness took on a form of its own, and the Room of Requirement held its breath as darkness snuck inside and swallowed the light.

Time became relative. The chess pieces felt it glide underneath them like a stream, slipping on the stones beneath the water and losing a footing they never had in the first place. Time was a mostly human concept, and they were a mostly human creation; they should have been able to grasp it. But, much like humans, when their senses were blind, their measurement of time tripped and rolled, tucked and lay very, very still.

There was darkness without time, and in a world without mirrors and measurements, the chess pieces went mad.

.ooo.

One day, there was light. A grand sliver opened and grazed a row of cages with something in them. That something, of course, was invisible. Next to them, a bureau lay quiet, waiting to receive the sun on its face. Between the door and the chess board stood a large, broken mirror. The White Queen sighed gratefully, hoping for their turn. However, the sliver diminished, never quite reaching the chess board on the other side of the mirror.

A large roar was heard in the distance as the light once again fell prey to darkness, and the White Queen couldn't tell if it was darkness as in absence-of-light or presence-of-darkness, but either way, she was scared.

And then appeared a small light. A bobbing head of blonde, almost white hair. It worked its way through the columns without much sense, and the White Queen regarded it curiously whenever it cropped up between this artefact and that. It weaved its way through nonsense, coming closer, closer, like a blessing in disguise, a disaster on crooked railroads, until, finally, it stood in front of the mirror. There was a body beneath the head of hair, and the White Queen thought that very fitting.

The head of hair with its body underneath crawled through the mirror and landed on the chessboard.

She was now a white pawn in a game that the White Queen didn't remember when had started. Next to the head of hair, the White Queen's sister greeted the light. The White Queen couldn't hear what her sister was saying; she was clad in the blood of her enemies, and her tongue always sang with a thousand swords.

They had been here for centuries and nigh a minute, because time was relative, and when you lived a million lives, it became circular too. The White Queen didn't know if this was a memory or a premonition; _now_ seemed so fleeting, and she knew that the chess board heeded her thoughts. If she thought _then_ , this would become just another life remembered.

In the darkness of days, they had played out wars. Rose wars seemed symbolic of their colours, but she couldn't remember why. They sampled vorpal swords and slayed Jabberwocks when they didn't crush each other, and their endless lives looped and returned.

The White Queen was jealous; she wanted to speak to the light too, but her sister fled to the edge of the board, and the child moved forward to stand beside the Red King.

(The White Queen was jealous; the light looked like a magician, and kings always loved their magicians.)

So she moved forward as well.

"Sometimes you have to take a step back to move forward."

The child of light looked up at her, but the White Queen stood, stone-faced and mirrored in the red. Around her stood trusted servants and perfectly straight-and-narrow divisions of kingdom. Beyond their borders lay rolling hills of junk and puddles of spilled magic.

She was a queen, and she had just warned the girl. People heeded queens, and if they didn't, their heads rolled.

"If I move back, I will no longer be white," the girl said, and the White Queen thought it sounded like _I can only move forward_.

"Do you care about your colour?" This time, the White Queen looked down upon the light; she was nothing like the monochromatic pieces of the White Queen's existence. She was a child of the night sky never-before-seen, a small part of the stars and the blue, and the White Queen knew that this one defied rules because the rules had already been broken.

The light took a step forward to stand between the kings.

Two pawns greeted her: Reason and Rhyme. Neither in the way, both inscribed in a nonsensical history. The White Queen knew that they would sing and repeat and mirror each other and each other's words until the girl was tired and frustrated and moving on.

History always repeated itself. Time was circular.

The girl didn't seem frustrated.

The White Queen moved ahead to see. And then she flew away to the end of the board, like a bird on a perch. From where she was now seated, she could survey the kingdoms. Perfectly opposite her sister if you angled the mirror the right way.

The White Queen moved ahead, forgetting about the girl, because time was slipping, and she didn't know if the girl was real or imagination or memory. She recalled death at the hands of every red piece on the chess board, replaying the often and horrific deaths until they became only imagination, and the light seemed to be the same.

Knight took knight in a game she didn't remember when had started.

In her line of sight, the light stepped forward, a white pawn, a second, an infinity, a queen. Her coronation wasn't swift, wasn't slow, because the White Queen couldn't quite seem to pinpoint the moment of transition. Someone, perhaps herself, put a crown on the girl's head, and in a thousand different lives, she did it over again or watched from afar.

A game wasn't won until a king fell, though.

It was the 4th of November, a fleeting certainty.

The light left.

.ooo.

Fading was a time-relevant thing to do, and the White Queen wasn't sure time existed. It was a mostly human thought, and she was a mostly human being. They said a goddess carved the chess pieces out of her anxiety, and so the chess pieces became anxious beings.

The White Queen yearned to end the war.

It was the 4th of May, a perfect mirror.

The light returned.

"White Pawn, Alice, to play and win in eleven moves," the White Queen greeted.

"My name is Luna," the mouth beneath the head of hair said.

"Like the night sky sentinel," the White Queen said because the chess pieces were anxious beings.

"Like the love of my mother," replied the light.

The game went on, an uneven mirror, cracked, every surface reflecting another reality, an old possibility, a time not yet played, a history never experienced.

She moved with grace and direction. The White Queen realised that she'd never questioned the light. She'd never asked her why she came back.

It was the 4th of November, and snow was falling, covering everything in white.

It was the 2nd of May, and people were falling, covering everything in red.

It was the 4th of May, a perfect mirror.

The light took the Red King after her castling, and the White Queen thought she heard her sister snicker-snack.


End file.
